Yesterday — Where are you putting that salad bowl? It’s blocking the cold cuts! And move the wine glasses, Oleg will be here any minute and you know he likes to wave his arms around when he talks. Victor fussed with the crystal dishes, nearly dropping the forks. Galina heaved a tired sigh, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since sunrise; her legs felt like lead, and her back ached in that familiar spot just below the shoulder blades. There was no time to complain, though. Tonight’s star guest was her husband’s younger brother—Oleg. “Calm down, Vic,” she said, trying to sound steady. “The table looks perfect. Just tell me, did you get the granary bread? Last time Oleg whinged about only having white loaf; says he’s watching his figure.” “I did, I did—artisanal rye with caraway, just the way he likes,” Victor dashed to the bread bin. “Gally, the meat—is the meat ready? You know Oleg’s a foodie, always off to posh restaurants, you can’t impress him with plain old burgers.” Of course Galina knew. Oleg, forty and still single, fancying himself a “free-spirited artist,” but in fact scraping by on odd jobs and his ageing mother’s kindness, fancied himself the ultimate connoisseur. Every visit was an exam Galina knew she’d fail before it began. “I roasted a joint in honey-mustard sauce,” she replied crisply. “Fresh cut, from the market, cost me twenty quid a kilo. If that’s not good enough, I wash my hands of it.” “Oh, don’t start,” Victor winced. “He hasn’t visited in six months; he misses us. Just be patient, alright? He’s… having a hard time, finding himself.” “It’s money he’s trying to find,” Galina thought—not herself—but kept quiet. Victor adored his little brother, cherished him as a misunderstood genius, bristled at any slight directed his way. The doorbell rang at precisely seven. Galina whipped off her apron, adjusted her hair in the hall mirror, and pasted on a polite smile. Victor was already flinging open the door, beaming like a freshly polished tea urn. “Oleg, mate! About time!” Oleg stood there looking as stylish as ever: designer coat unbuttoned, scarf tossed carelessly over his shoulder, rugged stubble. He spread his arms wide for Victor’s hug but only patted his brother’s back in return. Galina scanned his hands. Nothing. No gifts, no cake box, not even a cheap bunch of petrol station flowers. He’d come for dinner at a table groaning with food—after half a year away—and brought absolutely nothing. Not even a treat for the kids, who thankfully were at Gran’s tonight. “Hi, Galina,” he nodded, strolling in and eyeing the corridor. “Redecorated? The wallpaper’s a bit… clinical. Whatever, as long as you like it.” “Hello, Oleg,” she said, voice measured. “Come in, wash your hands. New slippers here.” “I didn’t bring mine—don’t fancy catching athlete’s foot in someone else’s. I’ll stick to socks. The floor’s clean, right?” Galina felt her irritation bubble. She’d cleaned the floor twice for this. “Spotless, Oleg. Through here to the table.” They settled in the lounge. The table really did look party-perfect: crisp white cloth, fancy napkins, three salads, cheese and charcuterie, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms she’d jarred herself last autumn. Hot food steamed in the centre. Oleg lounged back arrogantly, surveying the spread. Victor fussed with the bottle of cognac he’d picked out yesterday—five years aged, imported just for his brother. “To us!” Victor declared, pouring drinks. Oleg took his glass, sniffed, swirled, squinted at the light. “Armenian?” he grimaced. “Hmm. I only drink French—the bouquet is more delicate. This one tastes of pure spirit. Well, you know what they say about gift horses…” He knocked it back in one go, reached for the most expensive meat on the plate. “Help yourself, Oleg,” Galina nudged over the salad. “This one’s prawn and avocado—new recipe.” He speared a prawn, inspected it like a jeweller eyeing a diamond. “Frozen prawns?” he demanded, knowingly. “Well, of course—we’re hardly on the Cornish coast!” Galina blinked. “Bought them at Tesco—jumbo king.” “Rubber,” Oleg announced, dropping the prawn back into the bowl. “You’ve overcooked them, love. Prawns should hit boiling water for exactly two minutes—now, these fibres are tough. And the avocado—underripe. Crunchy.” Victor, mid-salad, froze with his spoon in the air. “Oh, come on, Oleg, it’s tasty! I tried it, it’s great.” “Victor, taste is learned,” Oleg said, condescending. “If you spend your life eating rubbish, you’ll never understand fine dining. Last week, I was at a restaurant launch—scallop ceviche, now that’s texture! And this… is that homemade mayo?” Galina blushed. The mayonnaise was standard shop-bought “Chef’s Choice”—she simply hadn’t had time to whip it up from scratch. “Store-bought,” she replied. “I see,” Oleg sighed as if receiving a terminal diagnosis. “Vinegar, preservatives, cornstarch… absolute poison. Right, let’s see this meat. Hope you haven’t ruined it, too.” Galina silently plated up a generous slice of roast, poured on sauce, added roast potatoes with rosemary. The mouthwatering aroma would make a normal person drool—but Oleg wasn’t normal. He was a “culinary expert.” He cut a bit, chewed slowly, staring at the ceiling. Galina and Victor waited. Victor, hopeful; Galina, growing angrier by the minute. “Dry,” Oleg pronounced at last. “The sauce—shouldn’t taste so much of honey. It’s overly sweet; the meat’s supposed to be savoury. It should’ve been marinated longer—kale, mineral water, at least a day.” “I marinated overnight, with spices and mustard,” Galina said quietly. “Everyone else likes it.” “Well, ‘everyone’ is subjective. Your workmates probably haven’t tasted anything better. I’m objective. Can get it down if I’m starving, I suppose, but no pleasure in it.” He pushed his nearly untouched plate aside and moved on to the pickled mushrooms. “Mushrooms—did you forage them yourself, or are those tinned from China?” “Home-picked,” Galina spat. “We picked, we brined.” Oleg sampled one, grimaced. “Too much vinegar. You’ll burn out your stomach. And too salty. You must’ve been in love to season it like this,” he snickered at his own joke. “Victor, mind your blood pressure with grub like this.” Victor forced a nervous laugh, trying to smooth things over. “Oh, come off it, mate—they’re ace with vodka. Pour another?” They drank up. Oleg turned pink, loosened his scarf, but wouldn’t take off his coat, as if to make clear he was just gracing them with his presence—wouldn’t be staying long. “And where’s the decent caviar?” he prodded a sandwich. “This is tiny, so many bits of skin. Got it on discount?” “Oleg, that’s wild salmon roe—cost sixty quid a kilo,” Galina snapped, her voice shaking. “We bought a jar just for you. We never have it, we save up.” “Scrimping on food’s a mug’s game,” Oleg mused, popping another “inferior” sandwich in his mouth. “You are what you eat. I’d never touch cheap sausage, I’d rather go hungry. You load your fridge with junk, no wonder you’re tired and pale.” Galina eyed her husband. Victor stared at his plate—the silent shame more painful than Oleg’s words. He’d chosen to duck conflict instead of standing up for her, as always. “Victor,” Galina said to him, “is my roast dry?” Victor choked. “Er… no, it’s lovely. Really lovely. Oleg’s got sophisticated tastes, that’s all…” “So I’m coarse and clumsy, yeah? My food’s poison.” “Gally, don’t start,” Oleg scowled. “It’s constructive criticism, so you can improve yourself. Be grateful. Don’t get too comfy with Victor shoveling it all down and raving about it—women should keep challenging themselves.” “Grateful?” Galina echoed. “You want me to thank you?” She rose. The chair scraped, piercing the silence. “Gally, where are you going?” Victor asked nervously. “We’ve barely started…” “I’ll just fetch dessert,” she said in a strange tone. “Oleg likes his sweets.” She headed to the kitchen. Her homemade Napoleon cake sat on the counter—twelve wafer-thin layers, custard cream, pure vanilla. She eyed the bin, hands shaking. Years of accumulated resentment suddenly boiled over. How many times had this man come, eaten, borrowed money without repaying, and always sneered—at her cooking, her home, her children? Meanwhile, Victor always defended him. “He’s sensitive, creative…” But Galina was supposed to be iron-willed? She left the cake untouched. Instead, she calmly gathered up the plates and returned. “Dessert?” Oleg perked up. “Hope it’s not Tesco’s swiss roll!” Methodically, Galina cleared the meat, the “rubbery” prawn salad, the cold cuts. “What are you doing?” Oleg cried as his sandwich plate disappeared. “I’m not finished!” “Why would you eat this?” Galina replied, locking eyes. “It’s all inedible. Roast’s dry, salad’s poison, prawns are rubbery, caviar is trash. I can’t let a valued guest get sick. I’m not your enemy.” Victor jumped up. “Gally! Stop it! Give the food back!” “No, Victor, this isn’t a circus. A circus is a man turning up empty-handed to a table we spent a quarter of your salary on, just to trash-talk the hostess.” “I wasn’t trashing,” Oleg protested, face blotchy. “I merely expressed my opinion! It’s a free country!” “Free, sure,” Galina kept piling food onto the tray. “So I’m free to choose whom I feed in my home. You’d rather go hungry than eat anything sub-par? I respect your choice. Go hungry.” She marched off with the food. Stunned silence flooded the room. “You’re mad!” Victor hissed, running after. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my brother! Put it back, apologise!” Galina parked the tray on the counter and turned, icy resolve in her eyes. “So I’m humiliating you? All those times you nodded while he belittled me—wasn’t that shameful? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? He scoffed a dozen quid’s caviar in five minutes and said it was worthless. Have you ever bought me caviar just because, not for a guest? No. The best for visitors—who wipe their feet on us.” “He’s my brother! Blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years cleaning for you, cooking for you. I was up till 2 a.m. baking yesterday—what for? For him to call me a hack? If you keep blaming me, I’ll wear that Napoleon cake like a hat. Serious.” Victor reeled—he’d never seen her angry, hard-edged before. Galina had always been soft, “convenient.” Now she was a furious storm. Oleg peeked in, no longer cocky, but confused and aggrieved. “Well, I’ve never…!” he spat. “What sort of hospitality is this? I came with an open heart and you berate me over bread?” “Open heart?” Galina sneered. “Where’s that ever shown? Empty hands every time—brought anything in years? Not even a box of teabags. You come to eat and criticise. That’s all.” “I’m skint! Temporary setback!” “Your ‘temporary setback’ has lasted twenty years. But that new coat and scarf are pricey—you go to parties, restaurant launches. But you’re quick to plead five grand off Victor and never pay it back.” “Galina, enough!” Victor yelled. “Stop counting his money!” “They’re not his—they’re ours. Family money, sacrificed for this… gourmet!” Oleg clutched his chest theatrically. “That’s it. I’m done. I won’t spend another minute here. Victor, never thought you’d marry a fishwife. I’m never coming back.” He stormed off to the hall. Victor chased after. “Oleg! Wait! Don’t listen, she’s moody, knackered from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, brother,” Oleg said tragically, shoving his shoes on over his socks. “This insult won’t wash. I’m gone. Don’t call until she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood staring at it like it was the gates of heaven, then slowly trudged back to the kitchen where Galina was calmly boxing the roast away. “Happy now?” he muttered. “You’ve fallen out with my only brother.” “I’ve saved us from a freeloader,” she replied, not looking. “Sit, eat. The roast’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you?” Victor slumped at the table, head in hands. “How could you? He was our guest…” “A guest is a guest, not a health inspector. Victor, listen. I’ll never—hear me—never lay on a spread for him again. See him if you want—somewhere else. On your own dime. None of my money or effort will go on him.” “You’ve gone hard,” he whispered. “I’ve become fair. Eat up. Or shall I pack it away?” Victor eyed the juicy roast, stomach rumbling. He hesitated, tasted—and the meat melted in his mouth, sweet and tangy, perfect. “Well?” Galina asked, seeing his satisfaction. “It’s lovely,” Victor admitted quietly. “Really lovely.” “There you go. Your brother’s just a jealous parasite puffing up his ego. Think about it.” Victor chewed, remembering Oleg’s empty hands, his patronising tone, his own discomfort whenever Oleg criticised the food. “And the cake?” he asked. “Will we have cake?” Galina smiled, for the first time all evening. “Of course. I’ll brew some proper tea—with thyme, just how you like.” She sliced the glorious Napoleon cake into thick slabs. They ate and drank tea together, tension melting away. “You know,” Victor remarked after his second helping, “he didn’t even buy mum a birthday present. Said he himself was the gift.” “See?” Galina nodded. “You’re catching on.” Victor’s phone pinged—message from Oleg: *‘Could’ve given me a couple of sandwiches, I left hungry. Five grand dosh owed for emotional trauma.’* Victor read it aloud. Silence. Galina raised her eyebrow. “What’ll you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their cosy kitchen, the perfect cake. Then his phone. Slowly, deliberately, he typed: *‘Go eat in a restaurant, you’re the gourmet. I’m skint.’* Then hit “Block.” “What did you write?” Galina asked. “Said we’re going to bed.” Galina pretended to believe him, though she’d glimpsed the screen. She came up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You did good, Vic,” she said. “Took you long enough.” That night, they understood something vital about each other. Sometimes you have to cut certain people loose—even if they’re family—to save your own. And those who truly love you will always choose your home-cooked roast over bitter criticism and empty hands.